


Taking Root

by juliafied



Series: The Lone Wolf's Call [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternative Perspective, F/M, Falling In Love, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:54:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23315758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliafied/pseuds/juliafied
Summary: A series of snapshots of Fenris and witty!Felissa Hawke's developing relationship. Can be read alone or as a companion to my other fic, The Lone Wolf's Call. NSFW chapters are tagged in individual chapter summaries.
Relationships: Fenris/Female Hawke
Series: The Lone Wolf's Call [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1676716
Kudos: 9





	1. Inception

Part 1: Inception

Fenris had been scrubbing his chest plate when he heard a loud knock at the front door of the manor. It had been a week since he had occupied it, partially out of spite; he had even considered leaving the demon corpses to rot in anticipation of Danarius’ inevitable return. Eventually, by the third day, the smell had become unbearable, and he had dragged them, by moonlight, into the sewers below the city. Hopefully, his presence alone would be enough to tarnish the manor for his former master.

Scrubber still in hand, he walked over to the door. Surely, slave hunters would not be so kind as to knock. Gingerly, he opened the door, and was greeted by the grin of the woman who had helped him the week before.

“Fenris!” she exclaimed and pushed past him into the foyer. “I’m back, to ask more unwelcome and probing questions about your past, probably. You busy?”

Her assertion might have made him bristle, if not for the obvious jest, and maybe the pretty smile. “Not anymore,” he wryly replied.

“Good,” she said with a wink, and strolled with Fenris into the main hall, up the stairs, and into the room where he spent most of his time. A fire roared heartily in the fireplace. “Cozy,” she remarked, and slung her cloak on the back of a chair that faced the fire as he hastened to move his chest plate from the table. She sat down gracefully, Fenris following suit on the bench across from her.

“So, Hawke, how can I help you?”

She laughed. A contagious thing. “Maker, it does seem I only visit my friends when I need something, doesn’t it? Forgive the presumption, but I am simply dying to try the wine you were using to decorate the walls a few days ago, if you’d indulge me.”

“With pleasure,” he murmured, and brought a bottle from his bedroom. They were friends, apparently. No one had ever called him that before.

“Wonderful,” she said gratefully, and gave a satisfied sniff as he poured the dark red liquid into two chalices. She stared directly at Fenris with an unreadable look as she sipped, which soon turned into a toothy grin. “Now I’m truly angry with you! This is exquisite!”

Fenris snorted and took a sip of his own. “Danarius was always a creature of luxury. I was a luxurious object to own and display as much as this wine.”

Hawke sobered, the unreadable expression returning to her face. “No longer,” she murmured. “I can’t imagine anyone ever being able to own _you_.”

It was meant as a compliment, he knew, but the words still stung. “I didn’t exactly have a choice in the matter,” he said bitterly.

Seeing that she had touched a nerve, she balked, eyes wide. “Oh, Fenris, of course, I know that. I just meant that you seem… indomitable, so to speak. I admire that about you,” she said, and casually, lightly placing her hand on his forearm, continued, “I’m sorry.”

He couldn’t help but smile. How could he resist such sincerity? “Now who’s the flatterer?”

With a laugh, she withdrew her hand, going back to the goblet. Its absence left a warm tingle on his arm, and he dared not glance at it, lest she notice the lyrium that he suspected had lit up there.

If she had, she said nothing about it, instead remarking, “Since we’re switching sides here, I’ll have you know that I am very open to answering any probing questions about my past you might have. It’s only fair.”

She stood and picked up the wine bottle, giving it a shake to determine its fullness, and poured some more into what Fenris realized was his empty chalice. He nodded appreciatively. “I’ll bite. When you arrived in Kirkwall, after fleeing the Blight, what did you do?”

Hawke bit her lip pensively. “My uncle, bastard that he is, gambled away my family’s inheritance. We got off the boat expecting an awkward family reunion, but I never thought that we’d have to try to bribe our way into the city with no coin to speak of. Bethany and I sold off the only thing we had – our skills – to a mercenary band, in return for passage into the city. Guarding cargo and hunting down bandits, mostly.”

Listening to her talk was nothing short of delightful. Fenris couldn’t help but stare at the elegant gesturing of her shapely hands, the teeth she flashed so mischievously from time to time. “Do you have any good stories?” he asked, egging her on somewhat selfishly, he realized.

She sighed. “It was rather dull, for the most part, but I did get into a fistfight with a bandit leader at one point, that was fun.”

“Oh?” Fenris could hardly imagine her lithe, agile form, best suited to dodging and slicing the enemy right where it hurt most, engaging in a common match of fisticuffs. He poured more wine for them both. The bottle was nearly empty. Only a glass or two left.

“Yes, I’m hardly a fist fighter, I know. We had been contracted by some merchant to eliminate bandits preying on his caravans, on a trail near Sundermount. Standard job, as far as they go. It was towards the end of our year with the mercenaries, so I suppose Bethany and I had made a bit of a name for ourselves. Regardless, a few mercenaries, Bethany, and I baited the bandits with an unguarded wagon and followed it from a distance. When they inevitably attacked the driver, we emerged to valiantly protect it, only to have them yield immediately.”

“And then?”

“One of them pointed at me and yelled that they would yield to ‘the Hawke’ only, and that they would leave the caravans alone if I would meet with their leader, who styled himself as Bran of Broken Oar.”

“‘The Hawke’?”

“I think they thought it was a nickname. I went along with it, went to some cave or other, and there was Bran of Broken Oar, a lumbering oaf if I’d ever seen one. He declared that he’d only yield to the Hawk if I faced him in one on one combat. No weapons, just fists.”

“Sounds like he was looking to make a name for himself, too,” Fenris remarked, finishing the last of his wine. He was feeling rather drunk, mostly on the wine, but the headiness of Hawke’s company was undeniable.

“Had some delusions of grandeur, I’m sure. Maybe he was expecting a song out of it, ‘There once was a hero named Bran of Broken Oar, who defeated the Hawk of Kirkwall with his bare hands’ or something,” she sang out of key, this time placing a hand on Fenris’ shoulder and gesturing as if to a great crowd. As soon as he became aware of the thinness of his linen shirt, she removed her hand and leaned back into the chair. “I think he greatly overestimated my fame. Either way, there I was, daggers set aside, in a damp unpleasant cavern, wrapping my hands and listening to Bethany scold me for agreeing to do it.”

Fenris chuckled. “That sounds like her.”

“I thought it’d be easier than trying to fight _all_ of the bastards. We stand three strides apart, Bran’s henchman counts down, and at the very moment we are face to face, he winds up to strike, I dodge left, and he loses his balance, falls right over and dashes his forehead on a rock.”

“You’re joking.”

“I wish! Not my proudest win, but his henchmen counted it as such, and we left. Caravan was never attacked again. Oh, and they all swore fealty to the great Hawk of Kirkwall while their former leader bled out on the ground. I go and visit sometimes, it’s much less damp in the summer months and the tributes are unrivaled.”

“Now, you _must_ be joking,” Fenris declared incredulously, with a laugh.

“Yes, yes, you got me. No, they dispersed, and I frankly have no idea what happened to them. We got our pay from the merchant, and that was that. The mighty Hawk of Kirkwall had bested Bran of Broken Oar.”

“You should ask a bard to document this impressive feat,” he said wryly, pouring the rest of the wine into their chalices.

“Maybe someday.” Hawke raised her goblet and declared, “To new adventure!”

Her optimism was infectious. Fenris smiled broadly and touched her glass with his own. “To you, the Hawk of Kirkwall.”

They drained their chalices, and sat in content silence for a few moments, staring at the fire. She was a charming storyteller. And, as capable as she was, she didn’t seem to think too highly of herself. Fenris liked to think himself a good judge of a character, given how difficult it was to earn his trust. Something about Hawke _felt_ right, in a way that he had never felt before. It wasn’t even her beauty, which was undeniable: full lips that were always moments away from a grin, bright eyes that glinted impishly in the firelight, her graceful, almost feline figure that was both athletic and feminine, something he had never seen in a female warrior before. Her earnestness and sincerity, without naivete or ignorance, were perhaps what attracted him the most. Everyone else he had ever met always had a hidden agenda, some goal they were pursuing and hoping to use him for. As far as he could tell, Hawke was just doing her best to make enough coin for her family to be comfortable, and not much else.

The subject of his thoughts sighed contentedly, and placed the chalice on the table. “Well, you’ve indulged me long enough, I think; first with the wine, and now listening to my inane stories.” She laughed to herself in self-deprecation and turned to face him. “Thank you very much, Fenris. I hope you wouldn’t mind if I come back to pester you again.”

“How can I refuse? I’d rather not end up in fisticuffs with the great Hawk of Kirkwall,” he replied sardonically, and to his immense satisfaction, she laughed heartily.

“Indeed, I’m very threatening.”

She donned her cloak and he followed her as she sauntered through the manor and out the door. He watched her go, she shooting a last grin his way as she left his sight. He returned to the embers of his fireplace with a warm feeling in his stomach and tingling skin where she had touched him.


	2. Defiance

Part 2: Defiance

Though his travels with Danarius had taken him to many a place, from the jungles of Seheron to the desolation of the Silent Plains, Fenris had counted himself lucky that he had never stepped foot underground. Now, breathing in the stale musk of the Deep Roads, he questioned why he had let Hawke talk him into breaking that streak.

The subject of his complaint was setting up her and the dwarf’s tent, using a hammer to drive stakes through some ropes into the cracked, bronzy ground, and jovially conversing with Varric, who was tending to the fire. The Warden, apparently as lazy as he was reckless, lounged on his bedroll, tent poles unassembled next to him, scratching his blond head as he pored over some tome.

“Are you going to help?” Fenris growled at him as he walked over and picked up a pole.

Anders glanced at him idly and grimaced, closing his book. Fenris doubted that the two of them would have as cheerful of a chat as Hawke and Varric. They assembled the tent quickly and silently, Fenris unhappily anticipating another sleepless night listening to Anders snore. The man was insufferable, a danger to himself and others, but against all odds, his stupid jokes made Hawke laugh every time. Fenris tried to dampen his anger at Anders’ presence by considering the number of broken bones he’d mended for the party, but in truth, he’d much rather heal naturally than feel the prick of magic on his skin. There was nothing for it, however – the darkspawn were tricky and stronger than most men, and a broken arm required time between fights to heal, a luxury they did not have on this expedition.

They had left behind Bartrand and his men four days ago to find a way around the cave-in closer to the Deep Roads entrance, and Fenris was beginning to feel restless. He had grown accustomed to his freedom over the past few months, and the soil over his head reminded him too much of the cage he had fled. Tossing his rucksack of belongings into the tent, he unrolled the mat he slept on and laid it on the ground, followed by the golden halla fur he had pilfered from Danarius’ valuables. It was much too hot underground to sleep with it, but Fenris continued to do so out of spite, relishing the fact that a slave was using what would have been one of Danarius’ treasured belongings.

Since Anders had not deigned to set up his bedroll in the tent yet, Fenris had the privacy to remove his armour, which he did with satisfaction. Rifling through his bag, he changed into a set of relatively clean linen clothes. He emerged from the tent to the sight of Hawke stirring something in a copper cup set on the grate over the fire, cursing softly every time she got too close to the flames. She remained in her traveling boots but had changed into some soft linen trousers that ended above the knee and a billowing white cotton blouse tucked into her waistband. Somehow, despite the days of grime, sweat, and fighting, she looked marvellous. She waved him over once she saw him.

“Here, smell this,” Hawke said, grabbing the cup out of the fire using a thick piece of cloth and bringing it to his nose. An unfamiliar, rich, nutty aroma filled his nostrils, tinged with some earthiness that was not quite unlike the smell of their environs, but more pleasant. He looked down and saw a thick, dark brown liquid, not like the colour of Hawke’s hair.

“What is it?” he asked, furrowing his brow.

“An Antivan merchant was selling it in the Hightown marketplace last week. They call it ‘chocolate’. Only grows in the north, I think. He said to melt it with some condensed milk,” she informed him, gesturing to a jar of a thick white liquid, “and let it cool. I’ve been saving it as a treat.”

Chocolate. The word sounded familiar, but he couldn’t recall where he’d heard it. “It smells good,” he conceded.

Her golden eyes brightened with his praise, and he watched her saunter off in the Grey Warden’s direction. “Anders,” she called out, “can you freeze this for me?”

Fenris heard him grumble and a crackle of ice magic later, Hawke was prodding her fingers into the cup. She walked back over to her tent and emerged with a spoon in hand, which she polished off with her shirt. Sitting down fluidly into a cross-legged position in front of the fire, she dug the spoon into the now-hardened chocolate.

“Here, try it,” she commanded triumphantly, extending the spoon, heaped with the mysterious ‘chocolate’ mixture. He gingerly took it from her hand and carefully tried a bite, joining her to sit on the ground. It was sweet and malty, the unfamiliar nutty scent translating into a rich flavour.

“I like it,” he said in response to Hawke’s expectant gaze, adding sardonically, “and I am glad to be your taste tester.”

She laughed, a blissful sound, and playfully snatched the spoon from him, digging into her creation. Fenris admired her as she happily indulged in the sweet.

“My mother can tell you,” Hawke said, in between bites of the chocolate, “I have a terrible sweet tooth.”

He suddenly recalled where he’d heard the name before. Hadriana had once had it brought in for a Wintersend celebration. The slaves had not been allowed to have any, of course, but the cruel apprentice had taunted all of them with it. Now, he was being offered it freely, by a woman that not only highly outranked him, according to Tevinter custom, but had cooked it herself. The irony was undeniable.

“What are you smiling about?” To her credit, Hawke had set the dessert aside, and was now watching him curiously. He was in a divulgatory mood. She seemed to evoke that in him.

“I’m thinking… about how I wasn’t supposed to be here,” he replied.

Undaunted by his cryptic reply, she pressed, “What do you mean?”

“You know, _here_. I was a slave. All I knew was how to serve my,” he hesitated before uttering the word, “master. Before I escaped, I’d never been anywhere because I _wanted_ to be there.”

She looked around at the reddish-brownish emptiness of the Deep Roads, the stone pillars, the gaping maws of dark passageways leading to unknown depths, likely full of darkspawn. “I’m not sure if here is the best place to be, if I’m honest.”

He snorted. “No, but I choose to be here. If I was tired of the underground, I could turn back. If I wanted to, we could part ways, and I could seek my fortune elsewhere.”

To his surprise, her face fell slightly. He quickly added, “Not that I want to,” and she brightened again. “But it is my choice, and mine alone. My very presence here defies all that was ever imagined for me.”

He suddenly became aware of their closeness, sitting shoulder to shoulder, looking into the fire. Their knees were touching, and for the first time in his memory, he felt no pain, no reaction of the lyrium markings to it. He felt an urge to grasp her waist and pull her close but quickly dismissed it, disconcerted by his own impulse. She deserved better than to be unwelcomely pawed at like some tavern wench.

“I understand,” she murmured, apparently unperturbed by their contact. “No one wanted me to be here either. Fereldan refugees weren’t the most welcome in Kirkwall, and everything I have now, I’ve fought for.” She grew serious for a moment and turned to look at him. “And you have accomplished all that I have and more, with the odds ever more against you, Fenris. I am happy to have you…” she hesitated, appearing to change her choice of words, “fighting beside me.” Hawke seemed to want to say more but decided against it before looking away.

Fenris simply nodded, unsure of what to say. He glanced up to see Varric pointedly staring at them. When he noticed Fenris’ gaze, he winked and walked away. Fenris blushed and rapidly got up.

“I should… I have some jerky in my bag, everyone must be hungry.”

She also leaped up and muttered something about asking Anders for some ice before walking away, avoiding eye contact with him. Still red, Fenris went back to his tent and laid down on his mat with a deep breath, forgetting about the jerky. Unexpectedly, Varric strode inside and sat on the ground where Anders’ bed roll would go.

“She’s rather smitten with you, Broody,” he drawled. “She’ll never admit it but it’s all ‘Fenris said this’, ‘did you know Fenris has been there?’, ‘Fenris showed me how to do that’ when we’re playing cards at the Hanged Man.”

Sitting up, Fenris snorted derisively but couldn’t help but turn red again. The dwarf was surely mocking him.

“I sincerely doubt that, Tethras. Hawke has better things to worry about than an escaped slave,” he replied flippantly, perhaps more so than he intended.

“Hey, I’m just trying to look out for her, and I happen to care about her. All I’m saying is, don’t break my friend’s heart, alright?” The dwarf strolled off, rolling his eyes.

Fenris didn’t want to think about what the dwarf had claimed, nor the way it had made his heartrate spike, or the colour it had brought to his cheeks. With a sigh, he tried to fend off the inevitable to no avail. The way she had said his name echoed through his mind, in step with his heartbeat, which eventually turned to hers: _Felissa, Felissa, Felissa_ …


	3. Expansion

Part 3: Expansion

“ _Vishante kaffas_ ,” Fenris muttered under his breath.

“Come on, just one more sentence, you know you can do it.” Felissa peered over his shoulder. He could hear her soft breaths close to his ear as she leaned on her hand, elbow on the table.

“‘A rare first-hand account of the con… con-fron…’”

“Confrontation,” she offered.

“Yes, that,” he said with annoyance, and recalling that she’d probably make him repeat it, muttered, “confrontation”.

“Good…”

He’d taken too long, and knew she was about to ask him to start from the beginning. Half-heartedly, he began again.

“‘A rare first-hand account of the… confrontation between Shartan’s group and the Tevinter legion suggests that a large number of elven-made blades and bows were left on…” He paused, trying to mouth the syllables.

“‘ _Montem Susurri’_ ,” she finished for him, butchering the Tevene, but the attempt was endearing. “What does it mean?”

“‘Whispering Hill’, in Common. Or perhaps mountain? I’ve heard of it before, I believe it’s near Nessum, in west Tevinter.”

“Can’t say I’ve ever been,” she said with a wink, and gestured to the page. “Just finish this one and we’re done, I swear.”

He sighed. “…a large number of elven-made blades and bows were left on _Montem Susurri_ , but were never recovered by Tevinter scholars, leading modern historians to hy…” He had seen this one before, in a previous chapter. The syllables were easier this time around. “Hy-po-the-size… that another group of escaped elves may have seized them.’” Fenris took a deep breath, and at that, Hawke reached gently past him, snapped the book shut, and set it aside.

“Maker’s breath, I really couldn’t have picked a denser one for you. Sorry again, Fenris. I promise any book I give you in the future won’t have quite as many long-winded explanations of the exact geographic locations involved.”

He smiled at the idea of her giving him more books. “Nothing but children’s stories, then?”

“Or sultry romantic trash. You’ll get to _the_ chapter and I’ll have to listen from the next room, lest we be accused of impropriety.”

Fenris raised a brow. “ _The_ chapter?”

“Oh, you know,” she said, going to stand in front of the fireplace. Fenris swung his legs over the bench so he could sit facing her. “The knight, having vanquished the lady’s captors, enters her chamber, where she is splayed artfully across a fainting couch.” She mimed the movement with the use of a nearby chair, hand lain delicately across her forehead. “‘Oh, Ser Knight, how am I to repay you for this valiant deed?’” she said dramatically with the high-pitched affect of a highborn lady, and then sat up. “A particularly descriptive seduction usually ensues.”

Fenris laughed heartily at her impression. “And people actually spend time reading this?” he asked incredulously.

“Well, whatever gets you going, I suppose,” Hawke said pensively, chin in her hand. “Although I’ve always personally been more of a fan of the drawn-out type of romance. The knight and the lady establish some kind of rapport, maybe there’s some reason they can’t be together, a task that needs to be accomplished. Perhaps a few stolen kisses at times when they could be caught. And then, at the end, the inevitable seduction is much more satisfying, in my opinion.” She smiled wickedly, as if aware of the direction in which this kind of talk would lead his mind.

Consequently, he caught himself staring at her soft, full lips, and wondered what it might be like to press his own against them. They were close, he realized; a moment ago she had been lounging haughtily on the chair by the fireplace, the next, she and her irresistible lips were just a breath away. Honey eyes peeked through soft dusky lashes as she met his gaze, waiting…

Against his better judgement, Fenris leaned forward, but as soon as their noses touched, a sharp, familiar pain crackled on his skin, and he swiftly withdrew. The hand he had involuntarily raised to seek her waist fell limply to his side before having met its target; he turned away. He was broken, a sick imitation of a man; she deserved someone who would cherish every touch, every kiss. Her disappointment was palpable as she slid away from him on the bench, but to her credit, she was a good sport. Smiling only somewhat defeatedly, she got up and tapped on the cover of the book.

“I should be going, lest my reputation suff—”

He couldn’t bear for her to believe him indifferent to her charms. Much more clumsily than he would have liked, Fenris stood, and his hand finally caught the small of her back. The pain he felt at the touch was surpassed by his intense desire to show her just how charming she was. His lips met hers, and they were every bit as soft as they looked. She proved confident, as in all things, and she leaned into the kiss, her tongue parting his lips first questioningly, then enthusiastically after he responded with his own tongue. It was remarkable, really, how quickly and naturally her hands grazed down his back to grasp his ass, while his fingers burrowed their way through her hair, loosening the tight bun she always wore. She gasped softly and kissed her way from his mouth to the sensitive crook of his neck, giving a playful nibble on his ear on the way. He shuddered and leaned his head back, eyes closed, and she hummed, evidently pleased by Fenris’ positive response to her ministrations, which she could doubtless feel against her thigh. For a moment, he felt nothing short of ultimate pleasure, mixed with anticipation. He wanted to push her against the wall, take her to bed, take off her blouse and see what she looked like under these _useless clothes_ … until the sharp edge of pain crashed through like a wave, breaking the spell. He thought about enduring, for the sake of the beautiful woman he held in his arms, but it was too much to bear; he pulled away.

Felissa hadn’t expected this, he knew, and he did his best to allow her to let go gently, slowly, though the pain from her touch burned in his flesh. Fenris didn’t want to look at her, lovely as she was, cheeks flushed, dark hair in disarray, slightly out of breath, but he couldn’t look away, either. He ran his fingers through his hair anxiously, and she touched his arm lightly. He couldn’t help but flinch.

“Are you… alright?” she asked, tentative, frowning reflexively at his flinch. “I’m sorry if that was too much, I know I can be a little… intense—"

He wanted to reassure her, that it wasn’t her, that it was he who was deficient, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he forced a chuckle and said, “I’m fine. I suppose I just don’t go around kissing beautiful women like you very often.”

That made her smile, thank the Maker.

“Well,” she said, disappointingly but understandably reaching for her cloak, “practice makes perfect, as they say.”

“Perhaps,” he replied, with a melancholy smile. They stood a few feet apart, when just a minute ago they had been as close as two people could be. It was a little awkward, he realized. “I’ll walk you—”

She waved her hand. “No, no, I’ll manage. Who knows, maybe the streets of Hightown won’t need cleaning for once, though you know thugs always seem to come crawling out whenever I’m taking my evening stroll.”

“Are you sure?”

Hawke nodded. “Don’t worry, Fenris. It’s only a few blocks over.”

He accompanied her as she hurriedly walked through the mansion to the foyer. When they arrived at the front door, she paused and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” she said, and strode off into the night. When she looked back, he gave a quick wave.

When Hawke’s cloak was out of sight, he closed the door and slid to the ground, leaning against it, for a long, long time.


End file.
